


Never Again Alone

by nautilicious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Talking Animals, Valdemar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a boy, Sherlock denied that he had any special interest in Companions, yet he spent hours with his attention focused on the streets outside. He claimed to be studying the city life, and he was, but his heart beat faster every time a Companion rode past. Mycroft knew, of course; he always knew, but he never said anything. Not about this.<br/>When Mycroft's Companion came, Sherlock dared to hope. He and Mycroft were more like each other than they were like anyone else, and Mycroft had been Chosen. But no Companion came, and he knew that for him there would be only the dance with darkness, the sharp knife of his awareness directed both outwards and inwards. Alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Again Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Healer's Gift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/933176) by [PrettyArbitrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary). 



 When Sherlock entered the library Mycroft had _that look_ on his face. Sherlock ground his teeth. Mycroft's gaze had the abstracted softness that indicated that he was mindspeaking with his Companion. Sherlock's lip curled. Really, he ought to be able to control his expressions by now. Wasn't he supposed to be some kind of diplomat? It wouldn't take Sherlock's powers of perception to deduce Mycroft's silent conversation; anyone could see it written all over his face.

“Ah, Sherlock,” Mycroft said at last. “My apologies. I've asked you here to discuss a matter of some importance.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I won't do it,” he said.

Mycroft merely smiled. “What choice do you have?”

“There's always another choice,” Sherlock replied.

“Not always a good one,” Mycroft said. “And I must insist that you make a good one in this instance. It was Mummy's last wish; surely that deserves your respect.”

“Mummy may have fawned all over your precious white uniform, but I'm just as glad to avoid becoming a walking target.”

Mycroft sighed. “This isn't about being Chosen. I sincerely doubt that is your fate; it's obvious how little you care for your fellow man outside of his ability to provide fodder for your intellect. The Companions require riders who consider caring an advantage.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “People are boring.”

“Often, yes,” said Mycroft. “Still. Boring does not equal unimportant.” He cocked his head to the side for a moment. Sherlock ground his teeth again. That tell of mindspeaking was far too obvious, and not one Mycroft usually displayed; he was rubbing it in.

“Anthea reminds me that you did actually promise Mummy that you would join the Blues. On her deathbed, as I recall. It would be dishonorable to recant.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. “Your uniform is a bit tight; perhaps it has affected your mental processes. When have I ever cared about honor?”

Mycroft's mouth dipped downwards. “I remember a time when you cared.”

“Yes, well, no Companion came for me and it went away.” He waved his hand negligently, ignoring how Mycroft's expression softened. “Unimportant. I won't be joining the wastrels that pass for students there. Lessons for noblemen's indolent sons and by-blows have nothing to offer me.” He leaned forward, meeting Mycroft's eyes squarely. “And despite all the strings you can pull, you can't actually make me.”

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, all trace of sentiment gone. “I rather think I can.” He paused, and though Sherlock knew that Anthea whispered into Mycroft's mind, for once his brother didn't let it show on his face. “However, it would be a waste of my resources to do so at this time. If you really believe that your contacts in the Guard will continue to work with you after spending any length of time in your company, I shall not disillusion you. Go and play your little games.” He wiggled his fingers in dismissal. “We will certainly return to this subject at a later date.”

Sherlock leaned back. He wished he had his violin; he yearned to cascade a dissonant cluster of notes into Mycroft's face. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. Sherlock stood, turned, and walked out without looking back.

 

Sherlock walked. He knew the streets of Haven as well as he knew the contents of his library: precisely organized and catalogued, all new data shelved and labeled as it arrived. Even when deep in thought he noted the new coat of paint on the baker's sign, the absence of puppies in the alley by the fishmonger, and the details of every person who passed him. He stored each piece of data absently, the majority of his mental processes occupied with his annoyance at Mycroft's smugness, certainty, and air of superiority. Until: he caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't help looking, knowing it was a Companion. Even after all this time.

The Companion had no rider, not a typical sight, but not abnormal. A quick glance at the state of its coat, hooves, and tack told Sherlock that it had found its Chosen somewhere in the city and was out to find him or her. He hunched his shoulders a moment, then adjusted the drape of his coat and walked on. Guard Captain Lestrade hadn't yet agreed to allow Sherlock into a crime scene, but Sherlock knew that Lestrade's case had stalled. He needed Sherlock. They'd be standing over a body before the day had ended.

_Two years later_

The bleak nights had come for him again, made his limbs feel leaden, his mind slow. Lestrade had turned him away. His thoughts moved sluggishly, coagulating. He'd endured Mycroft's concern, made promises he'd intended to keep, and yet. The black case lay on his lap, oblivion within his grasp. He could practically taste the dissolution, the quiet. He opened the lid.

 _No,_ a gentle voice said. _This is not the way._  

He looked up and saw a pair of blue eyes, blue like a cloudless sky, shining.In the depths of that gaze he saw acceptance, understanding, and love. The mind behind those eyes weighed Sherlock's flaws against his strengths and showed that they could be balanced and held within him, integrated. The other mind flowed against his, filling the cracks within himself, making him whole.

 _I will not allow your heart to be consumed with such sorrow, nor your mind with such darkness. You have great powers that must be turned towards a purpose; Valdemar needs you. You have cleverness and kindness both; the Heralds need you. You are brilliant; you are delightful:_ I _need you._

_I am Jywnn. I Choose you, and you will never again be alone._

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just a wee drab of an idea: what if John were Sherlock's soulmate the way that Companions are in Valdemar? I hope that others decide to play in this crossover arena; it intrigues me. I can see a number of ways our boys might translate well into this setting.


End file.
